Chapter 22 – Bells #2
Jamie passes me a mug in the shape of a fox head, forcing on one of his usual bright smiles. "So. Let's go over the mask and the magnetic release, since you didn't get a chance to play with it before. And this is the real thing, not a test piece."
On the workbench, there's a foam mannequin head, life-sized, with the perfect replica of Rex's signature silver-and-black performance mask covering half of it.
"Three contact points." He taps the outer edge of the mask with his index finger.
"Temple, cheekbone, jaw. They're strong enough to hold under stage movement—headbanging, jumping, whatever—but they release clean with a sharp diagonal pull.
" He mimes the motion. "Like this. Upper right to lower left.
One motion. Firm but not violent. You don't want to yank. "
"How firm?"
"Like opening a fridge door. Not like… ripping a phone book in half."
"Okay. Fridge door. Got it."
I position my hand on the outer mask. Temple, cheekbone, jaw. I can feel the magnetic contacts through the metal, three subtle points of resistance.
I pull.
Nothing happens.
But the prosthetic lifts partially off the foam head.
"Angle," Jamie says. "More diagonal or you'll tear the prosthetic beneath it off, too. That would… um. Not be optimal."
I adjust. Pull again.
The mask separates with a soft, satisfying click-click-click as the magnets release in sequence. The outer mask comes away clean in my hand, revealing the bone-white skull prosthetic underneath, attached to the foam head with pins.
"Oh," I say. "That's—yeah. That's good."
"Right?" Jamie's bouncing again. "Try a few more times. Get the muscle memory."
I reassemble it and pull again. Click-click-click. Clean separation. Again. Click-click-click. Each time, the prosthetic stays perfectly in place on the foam head while the outer mask lifts away.
"It's smooth," I say. "Really smooth."
"Orion's magnetic alignment is—" Jamie kisses his fingertips and blows out. "Perfection. The tolerances are insane. He spent hours making adjustments."
"It's incredible work."
"Tell him that, not me." Jamie tilts his head to throw his voice toward the direction of the hall with the beaded curtain and adds, practically shouting, "IF HE EVER COMES OUT." He smiles innocently at me. "He'll pretend it's nothing and then glow for a week. Try it on me now?"
He holds the outer mask against his own face and presses it into place, gripping it from behind with both hands. The proportions are wrong—it's molded for Rex's bone structure, not Jamie's softer features—but the magnetic contacts still engage.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
I reach for the mask. Temple. Cheekbone. Jaw. Diagonal pull.
Click-click-click.
The mask comes away in my hand and Jamie's grinning face stares back at me.
"Good!" He claps. "Perfect angle. Again? I'll even pretend to be Rex. For immersion."
We go again. Jamie presses the mask into place, I pull, it releases. Then he starts hamming it up. Growling, narrowing his eyes, mean mugging.
"I am Rex," he grumbles in a terrible impression that sounds more like a constipated bear. "I am very angry and mysterious. Fear me."
"That's awful."
"Grrrr. I hate everything. Especially joy. And sunshine. And people who are nice to me."
I'm laughing so hard my hand slips and the mask clatters onto the workbench.
"See?" Jamie scoops it up, inspecting it for damage. "No harm done. The magnetic housing is reinforced. Even if you fuck up like I do, the prosthetic won't come off Rex's face and the other mask won't break."
"You two really thought of everything."
"We've had practice." His smile dims by a fraction. "Orion's golden skull has been through a lot of iterations."
"Did you make that one too?" I ask curiously.
He nods. "Orion was my client once upon a time." Then he grins. "I'm… um… not very professional."
He's not wrong. He was inviting me to sexy game night within an hour of meeting them. I almost giggle before remembering Jamie has no fucking clue I'm an omega or a girl and I'm supposed to be putting on the cool beta male front. I practically choke on my own laugh trying to deepen it.
Cheeto's tail flicks.
Jamie laughs, too, oblivious.
"I think the trickiest part will be convincing Rex to let me practice on him," I say, looking down at the mask in my hands.
"Yeeeeah. Higher pressure situation for sure," he says with a wince and a sigh. "Just. Um. Do it a few thousand times to make sure you have it right. You think he'll let you practice on him?"
"Fuck no," I mutter.
"Practice on me."
The voice comes from behind the beaded curtain.
Jamie goes still. My hand freezes on the mask.
The beads click and rattle, and Orion ducks through the doorframe.
He's wearing a white tunic with pirate sleeves that makes him look like a vampire, and the golden skull as always, auburn hair loose around his shoulders, but his usually vivid green eyes are tired and flat.
He has dark circles beneath them. His eyes find Jamie first—a quick, checking glance—and then, with visible effort, shift to me.
"Jamie doesn't care," Orion says quietly. "You need to practice on someone who's likely to pull away or resist instinctively. And I'm Rex's height. You need to get used to reaching up for this, and it's going to matter more when it isn't just practice."
"Love," Jamie murmurs. "You don't have to—"
"I know. I want to." Orion glances at me again with obvious reluctance. "If it won't bother you, that is."
"What? No," I say quickly. "No, of course not."
"Hmm." He doesn't sound like he believes me, but he doesn't argue.
He turns his back to me and his fingers find the buckles at his temples, and I watch the same deliberate ritual I saw last time.
The slowing of his hands, the way his chest expands with one long breath, the micro-hesitation before the final clasp releases.
The golden skull comes away.
But I can't see him from this angle.
Jamie's hand drifts to the small of Orion's back. Orion doesn't acknowledge it, but his shoulders drop half an inch and he lets out a soft breath.
"The hinge is what 'atters," Orion says, his speech impediment back now that the mask isn't muffling his voice. He reaches for a small metal assembly on the workbench. It's a spare magnetic release housing, identical to the one built into Rex's performance mask.
He picks up an adhesive strip and fixes the magnetic housing directly to his bare scarred jaw and temple. Then he presses the outer mask to the housing and there's a soft click as it attaches.
He turns back to face me, but he's angling his head so I can see the side that's masked, but nothing more.
"Go," he says.
I hesitate, then reach for the mask.
Orion flinches before my fingers even make contact, a sharp, involuntary recoil that knocks his elbow into a jar of brushes on the workbench behind him. They scatter across the wood with a clatter and his head whips further to the side, tucking his face away from my approaching hand.
Cheeto's head lifts from the chaise. His milky eyes stare at nothing, ears flat.
"Sorry," Orion says immediately, his voice tight. He resets his stance. "Again."
"You sure?"
"Again."
I reach. Slower this time. Telegraphing every inch of movement so he can track my hand coming while Jamie watches, wringing his hands and biting his lower lip.
Orion still flinches. Less violently—more of a shudder than a full recoil—but his head turns away again and his hand comes up to shield himself, a reflexive guarding motion that pulls the contact points out of my reach entirely. My fingers close on empty air where the mask was a second ago.
"Again," he says before I can ask.
Third attempt. I get close enough to brush the edge of the metal before his chin tucks and the angle goes wrong. Fourth attempt, same thing. Fifth, his shoulders lock and he manages to hold his head mostly still, but I'm so nervous, I fuck it up and yank the mask at the wrong angle.
Orion lets out a hiss of pain through his teeth and doubles over, his hand flying up to press against the mask that's only partially disconnected. It clicks back into place and he shudders. "Fuck—"
Jamie is at his side in a flash, grabbing his arms. "Are you alright, love?"
"Shit," I croak. "I'm so sorry, I—"
"It's 'ine," Orion says, waving me and Jamie off with one hand as he grips the housing with the other. A trickle of blood runs down his scarred jaw and throat, blooming against the white collar of his shirt.
My heart sinks.
Oh gods.
"This is what 'ractice is 'or," Orion adds with a hoarse, humorless laugh as he dabs at the blood with the edge of his sleeve. He sounds fucking drained and I haven't even managed to grab the mask yet.
"Love—" Jamie tries.
Orion shakes his head. "Again."
Jamie backs away with obvious reluctance and starts making more tea because he apparently doesn't know what else to do with himself.
I reach up to place my fingertips against the mask one at a time, murmuring each contact point like a countdown.
"Temple." First point. Orion's breathing picks up but he holds. "Cheekbone." Second point. A bead of sweat tracks down his temple, following the edge of a scar. His face twitches—the start of a turn—and he locks it down. "Jaw."
Three points. All engaged.
I pull.
Click-click-click.
Clean separation.
Orion's exposed jaw and teeth catch the firelight. The permanent grin. The scar tissue where lips and cheeks should be, pink and white against bronze skin, branching up both cheekbones in jagged rivers.
He's avoiding looking at me again.
I hope to the gods above I'm not visibly reacting. I'm not afraid of him at all, obviously, but it is jarring to my stupid instinctive omega hindbrain. When I'm under enough stress, a fucking shadow on the wall is enough to make my inner omega want to dive into a primordial burrow.
"Good," Orion manages. Then, quieter, "That was good."
"Again?" I ask.
He nods.